Slurmdog Millionaire
by Dead Composer
Summary: We all know Fry isn't smart enough to win a million dollars. Or is he? No, he's not.
1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I don't own _Futurama_. The Hypnotoad does. All glory to the Hypnotoad…

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God, my head hurts, thought Fry. _The only other time my head hurt this bad was the morning after I drank the fermented remains of a Horrible Gelatinous Blob. Actually, now that I recall that, my head doesn't hurt so much anymore._

"The pain is a result of being knocked unconscious," uttered a gruff, yet familiar voice. "Hopefully it will linger for a great while."

"M-Morbo?" said Fry, astonished and frightened.

His vision blurred but semi-reliable, he began to take stock of his whereabouts. A cold, dingy room with bare stone walls, a rat or two scampering on the ceiling, Morbo standing upside-down before him with an uncharacteristic smile on his face. On top of that, his blood was somehow rushing upwards and collecting in his head, as if drawn by reverse gravity.

"Pitiful human," snarled the alien with the throbbing veins. "Perhaps you can deceive all of the Earth people all of the time, but you cannot deceive me, for I, Morbo, am Morbo!"

"Is this part of the game?" asked Fry innocently.

Morbo's smile morphed into a frown, and the walls echoed with his riotous laughter. _How do his feet stick to the ceiling like that?_ Fry wondered.

"During my time on your wretched world, I have meticulously studied the weaknesses of humans," said Morbo, opening up a compact disc box. "Three primary ones emerged—compassion for weaker beings, fear of physical pain, and an inability to endure the songs from Bob Dylan's Jesus years."

"No!" cried Fry. "NOOOO!!! AAAAAAAAAARRRGHH…"

"The torture has not yet commenced," said the bemused Morbo.

"It's the anticipation!" wailed the redhead. "It's more than I can stand!"

"Excellent," said Morbo. "Then perhaps you are ready to tell me how you cheated."

"Wha…?" Fry nearly swallowed his tongue. "Cheated? _Me?_ Never! I only cheat at poker and taxes! I wouldn't know how to _begin_ to cheat at _Cool Million_."

"I warn you, Philip J. Fry," said Morbo, grasping the young man's chin tightly with his clammy fingers, "if you do not respond to the standard torture, I will not hesitate to employ the _super torture_."

"Uh, I'll take the soup," said Fry.

_Geez, my ankles are killing me_, he thought. _Feels like ropes are digging into my flesh. Maybe not enough blood's going to them…?_

"Your level of intelligence is far below the average for your pathetic species," grumbled the alien. "You spent one thousand years in cryogenic suspension, learning nothing of that period's history, culture, technological advances, and celebrity pairings. You even lack a delta brain wave! Yet here you are, two questions away from winning a million dollars and universal fame. How did you do it, Fry? Telepathy? Brain steroids? Notes written on the insides of your eyelids using invisible ink? Communication with an audience member by way of intestinal emissions? Or another method entirely, one which my scanners _can't_ detect?"

"Hmm," said Fry. "I just figured something out. _I'm_ the one who's upside-down, not you!" _Explains why my arms have been dangling over my head all along._

"Silence!" roared Morbo. "You will reveal your method of cheating to me, _now!_"

"How can I do that when I'm silent?" Fry asked him.

Morbo narrowed his eyes. "Very well, _don't_ be silent…but do not speak unless you are telling me how you cheated, or complimenting my handsome forehead bumps."

Fry cleared his throat. "I didn't cheat," he said with conviction. "I _knew_ the answers."

* * *

How did Fry know the answers? Find out in the next thrilling chapter!


	2. Chapter 2

To increase his prisoner's comfort, Morbo released Fry from the ropes around his ankles and placed him, wrists shackled, in a hard wooden chair. "Oh, man," groaned the young human. "Now all my blood's rushing to my _feet_."

"You will now explain how you knew the answers," Morbo ordered him, "beginning with the first. According to a common saying, there is more than one way to skin a: (A) duck-billed platypus, (B) Centaurian dung hippo, (C) brain slug, (D) cat."

"That's an easy one," said Fry. "The answer is (B), Centaurian dung hippo."

"Indeed," said Morbo. "You, however, having been born in the 20th century when cats still roamed the earth, should have selected (D) as the correct answer. Why didn't you?"

The metal restraints chafed Fry's skin. "It's a long story," he stated.

"MORBO IS PATIENT!" shouted the green alien.

"Okay," said Fry, exasperated. "Two years ago…"

* * *

The line of men, women, and aliens stretched for literally kilometers outside of Madison Cube Garden, whose marquee read, _Dave Matthews Head Band, 9 p.m._ Somewhere amidst the heavily lit darkness stood Fry and Bender, both dressed in colorful T-shirts.

"Nobody believed me when I said the Dave Matthews Band would still be cool in a thousand years," said Fry smugly.

"You sure know how to pick 'em, Fry," said Bender.

"Uh, you remembered to bring the tickets, didn't you?" said Fry.

"_Me?_" said Bender, suddenly worried. "I thought _you_ had the tickets."

Flipping open his chest compartment, he rifled through the various items inside, pulling out a box of donuts, his prized bullet collection, a laminated copy of _Action Comics #1_, the Hope diamond…but no concert tickets.

"Omigod, Fry," the robot moaned. "They're not here!"

"They've _gotta_ be!" said Fry, his fists clenched. "Check your body cavities! _All_ of them! And I'll do the same!"

Five minutes of futile searching later, Fry dropped his head in despair. "There's no time to go back to the apartment," he lamented. "We'll have to _sneak_ inside!"

"How're we gonna do that?" said Bender. "Madison Cube Garden's security is impenetrable. Even _microbes_ can't get through."

"Sometimes," said Fry with resolve, "the old-fashioned way is the best way."

Seconds later they stood at the rear of the concert venue, looking up at the slanted, glassy walls. "Think you can stretch yourself all the way up there?" Fry asked his metallic friend.

"I'll give it a shot," said Bender. "But I should warn you…anything over 100 meters voids my warranty."

His arms raised, he channeled every ounce of his electromechanical energy into an upward thrust. His limbs reached ten yards in length, twenty yards, thirty yards…

"You can do it, Bender!" cheered Fry. "Go, Bender! Go, Bender!"

When he reached the 120-meter mark, Bender found that he could go no more. The rim of the nearest window, still 40 meters away, seemed to be laughing at the sight of his overextended body.

"Fry!" the robot called down from the heights.

"Yeah, Bender?" Fry yelled back.

"There's a little panel at the back of my left foot!" said Bender, quivering as the wind hammered at his gangly legs. "Open it up, push the green button, and hold it down for five seconds! And be quiet about it! We don't want to alert the guards!"

"Okay," whispered Fry.

"What?"

"OKAY!!!" shouted Fry.

Following the robot's instructions, he uncovered the green button and pressed it gently. Five seconds passed, and Bender's dome-shaped feet flew upward without warning, as if propelled by the springs that had suddenly erupted from his soles. The added momentum launched Bender, stringy limbs and all, directly into one of the low-hanging windows. Instead of smashing through, however, he bounced off at a right angle and sailed through the air, landing in a tangle of his own arms and legs atop the statue of Michael Bloomberg's head.

Fry rushed to his friend's aid. "Ugggh," grumbled the robot as he extricated his left arm from one of the former mayor's nostrils. "Glass is supposed to _break_, dammit!"

"Those windows must be made of kryptonite or something," said Fry dolefully. "We'll never get through them."

"Don't give up hope, buddy," said Bender. "There's more than _one_ way to skin a Centaurian dung hippo."

"A _what?_" said Fry.

"Oh, I guess that was after your time," said Bender. "People started keeping dung hippos as pets after cats went extinct. Terrible hygiene, but affectionate as hell."

* * *

"Fascinating," said Morbo. "Out of curiosity, did you ever make it into the concert?"

"No," replied Fry. "Bender and I went home, cranked up a Dave Matthews Head Band album, and cried ourselves to sleep."

"Very well," said Morbo, walking in a circuit around the prisoner. "I find your explanation satisfactory. We will proceed to the next question: The chemical compound Glaxokline is better known as what prescription recreational drug? (A) Megazonk, (B) Brain-B-Gone, (C) Bacchanailed, (D) I don't remember."

"Oh, geez," said Fry. "I haven't even told Leela this story, and she was _there_."

* * *

The entire lurid story…coming soon!


End file.
